The Trafficking Jam

Before we get to this week’s story we would like to take a moment to send our sincerest condolences to those that were impacted by the wildfires that have roared across the Los Angeles area over the past few days. We are aware of at least one of your fellow CCC subscribers who saw his home reduced to ashes yesterday. Many of you are evacuated from your homes and hoping for the best.

We considered not running a story today, but thought that perhaps a moment of brevity would be better than nothing at all, so with that in mind, please enjoy this week’s story.

Dear readers, every private club has moments when professional obligation collides with personal preservation. For one border town head pro, that moment arrived with a phone call from a certain member whose "business dealings" were never discussed, but whose requests were never denied. Buckle up for a wild story that will have Taylor Sheridan calling to base his next hit TV show on! 

The pro had seen the member's name in the papers, always in connection with ongoing investigations that somehow never led to charges. So when the voice on the phone informed, rather than asked, about needing the course that Monday, the pro's "of course, sir" came automatically, even as his stomach tightened. Mondays were typically reserved for straightening out the pro shop, but on this day the pro was hoping there would be no need to “straighten anything out” because that would mean something had gone horribly wrong. 

They arrived at 10am sharp - four black SUVs with windows dark as a desert night. The "caddies" who emerged wore blazers despite the 95-degree heat, their jackets doing little to conceal what was clearly more than just a ball retriever. Behind them, dressed in attire that was definitely not within the club’s dress code, strutted four gorgeous “cart girls” with rolling suitcases of top shelf tequila in their wake.

What happened next defied all expectations. These “gentlemen,” whose reputations for ruthlessness were well known across both borders, played with impeccable etiquette. They fixed ball marks. They raked bunkers. They even called penalties on themselves - though nobody dared question whether the penalty strokes were actually added to any scorecard. "If only our regular members showed such respect for the course," the superintendent would later remark, before quickly adding, "but you didn't hear that from me."

The match itself was captivating - two foursomes playing for stakes that made the club's annual revenue look like a municipal green fee. From behind his pro shop's tinted windows, the pro watched men who normally settled disagreements with extreme violence calmly discussing relief options from cart paths. Even the most hardened member of the group simply shrugged off an unlucky bounce from a greenside sprinkler head that led to a double bogey.

But it was after the match ended that the real drama began. It was time to settle up. With the sun setting behind the mountains the black SUVs began a carefully choreographed dance in the parking lot. New vehicles appeared, their headlights cutting through the desert dusk. Then came the duffel bags - large, heavy ones moving from one trunk to the other. Most golf bets get settled in over a beer at the 19th hole. Needless to say, this was about as far away as you can get from “most golf bets.”

Later that evening, after the fleet of SUVs had disappeared into the gathering dark, the pro found an envelope on his office desk, despite the fact that his office had been locked up all day. It didn’t have his name on it, but the single word made it clear it was for him - “Gracias.” 

Inside was enough cash to buy a fleet of golf carts - or enough problems to last a lifetime. The bills were crisp, sequential, and totaled more than his annual salary. He stood there holding what felt like a multiple choice test where every answer was wrong. Report it? Keep it? Donate it? Each option seemed to end with him in an uncomfortable conversation with either federal agents or worse, people who federal agents are hunting for.

These days, when certain members request special Monday accommodation, the pro has developed a sudden passion for course maintenance schedules. Some say he donated the money anonymously to the club's junior golf program. Others insist he bought a boat in San Diego, cash only. The pro himself? He just smiles and changes the subject to the importance of understanding your grip pressure.

So dear readers, we leave you with this word of advice: when you find yourself in over your head, sometimes the safest play is putting it in the sand.

Poll Question

Last Week's Poll Result

What type of "unexpected complications" do you think Tommy "Two Times" Castellano's cousins have orchestrated?

🟨🟨🟨🟨⬜️⬜️ Vicente's rental car's brakes mysteriously went out

🟨🟨🟨🟨🟨⬜️ Spontaneously combusting construction equipment

🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩 His foreman had a "quicksand incident"   

In one of our closest polls ever, the “quicksand incident” edged out combusting construction equipment and brake failure by a nose! As always, thanks to those who voted!

When the same guy keeps winning at gin you either tip your cap or figure out how he’s cheating. In this case, they figured out how he was cheating - and it cost him more than his reputation!

How Can I Refer My Friends?

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